PS 3545 
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1903 
Copy 1 



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DAN HACKL-EV WINSTON. 



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NASHVILLE, TENN.: 

NATIONAL BAPTIST PUBLISHING BOARD. 

1903. 






THE LIBRARY OF 
CONGRESS, 

Two Copies Receiveo 

JUN ;T 1903 

Engrrt tntty 
//- iqo3 
<*s XXc. No. 

COPY B. 



Copyrighted, 1903, 
BY DAN HACKLEY WINSTON. 



PREFACE. 



I've half a mind to tumble down to prose. 
But verse is more in fashion. 

— Byron. 



CONTENTS. 



A Heroine Unsung 

Death 

A Charm 

The Soldiers' Burying Ground 
When Leonie's in the Choir .. 

The Death of Poesy 

Which Way? 

Cotton 

A Tribute. 



10 

11 

12 

13 

14 

15 

17 

19 

On Board the Slaver ~ J 

28 



Bravery 

Organization. 
Venturing . .. 
Oblivion. 



The Chrysanthemum. 

The Caucasian 

Tommie's Confidence 
A Toast to the Devil... 



The First Battle 

If I Could Write 

To B. L. R 

A Preference 

The Pessimist's Ode to Satan 

Disaster . 

Two Hearts 

Satiety 

The Father's Welcome. 

E ejection 



Lynch Law ^ 



The Negro's Place 

Outdoing Columbus 

Abandon 

To a Faded Flower 

The Compensation 

Charlie's Love Letter 51 



Laurelle ° 8 



59 

62 
63 
64 
65 

66 

67 
68 
69 
70 



THE ETHIOPIAN : HIS SONG. 



A HEROINE UNSUNG. 



Since Psyche won the god of love's own love; 
Since Paris' bosom mighty passions tore, 
And faithless Helen made two armies prove 
Their valor on the Asiatic shore, 
Poets have ^raved and sung their beauty o'er. 
The Greek, the Gaul, the knight of sunny Spain, 
Amorous verses to their maids outpour. 
And sing their glory in heroic strain — 
But none have sung of thee — and thou dost not complain. 

No verse is framed in honor of thine eyes, 

lovely maid of Ethiopic line' 

No love-born arias, fraught with tears and sighs, 
Are voiced for thee— 't is not that none repine, 
For a 1 the charms of maidenhood are thine; 
And those who love thee whisper in thine ear 
Accents far softer than this lay of mine. 
And sweeter than Caucasian cavalier 
E*er sang by moonlight night, and called his love to hear. 

Oh, tfen! with 1 indness hear the humble song 

1 sing to thee, thou maid of darker hue! 
And V the singing was delayed too long. 
Let this redeem it: 'tis in spirit true; 

And heart does well what hand half fails to do — 
Extol thy virtues — and if short I fall 
In my attempts to hold them up to view, 
'T is that the power lies beyond my call 
To paint thee as thou art, the sweetest girl of all. 



9 



THE ETHIOPIAN: HIS SONG. 



DEATH. 



To live till we are old, 

And leaf by leaf 
Behold life's book unfold 

Through joy and grief; 
Through years to see life's tide 

Ebbing away. 
And with the years to glide 

To slow decay; 
Then like a sleepy child 
By heaven's love beguiled, 

To yield our breath — 

This is not death. 

But when the heart is young, 

The world is gay; 
Its fairest flowers strung 

In grand array; 
When shout and laughter ring 

Mirthful and long, 
And in life's genial spring 

Our pulse is strong — 
Then suddenly to droop, 
As down death's minions swoop 

To snatch our breath — 

This, this is death. 



10 



THE ETHIOPIAN : HIS SONG. 



A CHARM, 



(Written on the back of a photograph.) 

Sweet child! thy pictured face 

Shall be to me 
A guide to light and grace 

Unceasingly. 

When woe and care oppress 

I turn to this, 
Forgetting all distress 

In one fond kiss! 



11 



THE ETHIOPIAN : HIS SONG. 



THE SOLDIERS' BURYING GROUND, 



It is a beauteous place, this camping ground; 

No shot, no shout, or other warlike sound, 

Disturbs the warriors: in the silence deep 

Glorious they lie in their eternal sleep. 

Some leaders here, perchance, whose names were known. 

Have graves distinguished; others but a stone 

Carved with a number; and in order laid, 

They sleep like soldiers in death's ranks arrayed. 

One was my ancestor, my mother's sire, 

Who smiling faced the foe's malicious fire 

And died a man. He who had been a slave 

Must ever fill an honored soldier's grave. 

And other hearts 'neath a black skin concealed 

Poured out their blood upon that fatal field. 

Nor prejudice nor history's partial pen 

Can hide the glory of these noble men. 

What were their lives? Their children would be free; 

Each felt his arm could pull down slavery! 

This thought a wild, unflinching courage gave, 

They fought or fell the bravest of the brave. 

And o'.t 1 think our freedom were less sweet. 

The peace which wo enjoy were less complete, 

If whites alone for it their blood had shed. 

Nor negroes swelled the number of the dead; 

If as above their tombs survivors wept. 

No blood-stained negroes with their brethren slept. 

And as they triumphed in that dreadful fray. 

So did their children in a later day, 

Who warred with foreign foes — nut I forbear 

To gild the golden honors which they wear. 



12 



THE ETHIOPIAN: HIS SONG. 



WHEN LEONIE 'S IN THE CHOIR, 



The kindly organist, they say, 
On Sundays when to church I go, 

Chooses the saddest songs to play, 
But I can scarce believe 'tis so — 

The music seems so full of fire 

Because Leonie 's in the choir. 

The minister may preach in vain, 
The music has no charm for me — 

'T is when my longing eyes I strain 
And her dear face I cannot see. 

I have one thought, but one desire — 

To see Leonie in the choir! 

At last I see her — she was late — 
She takes her old, accustomed place 

The preacher, wonderful to state, 
Has now a far more pleasant face; 

The music doth my soul inspire 

Because Leonie 's in the choir! 



13 



THE ETHIOPIAN : HIS SONG. 



THE DEATH OF POESY, 



I was a poet once, but now my strain 
Is silenced, save the echo; and my pen 
Obeys my will no more. Not now as then 

I touch the mystic harp, which long has lain 

Like a loved dream abandoned : and a pain 
Short, sharp, flits o'er me, as I think again 
Of when I sang a gentle song to men — 

A song of life, which I once sang in vain. 

No more a tale of love in verse I tell, 

Charmed by the rapture in a woman's eyes; 

No more her smiles my heart's quick beats compel- 
Romance is dead, and low ambition lies. 

To dazzling fancy now I say farewell. 
And poesy, no longer cherished, dies. 



14 



THE ETHIOPIAN : HIS SONG. 



WHICH WAY? 



"A rain is coming up, I wot," 
Quoth Walker, with a frown; 

And then, ere he could strike a trot, 
He felt it coming down. 



15 



THE ETHIOPIAN : HIS SONG. 




16 



THE ETHIOPIAN: HIS SONG. 



COTTON. 



When by the summer leaves concealed, 

No more we hunt the 'possum, 
We seek the cultivated field, 

To watch the cotton blossom. 
The green persimmons on the tree, 

The 'coon, are all forgotten, 
When we behold this verdant sea, 

A summer field of cotton. 

Then when its early flowers have died, 

A darker shade assuming. 
The bursting bolls are opened wide— 

This is its second blooming. 
The woodland flowers have passed from sight, 

The garden's fruit is rotten, 
Still spreads afar the sea of white, 

A field of open cotton! 



17 



THE ETHIOPIAN: HIS SONG. 



A TRIBUTE. 



Since Winter, despot, robbing earth of cheer, 
Has been deposed by the more kindly Spring, 

Earth dons her gayest dress of all the year — 
A floral offering to her new-crowned king. 



19 



THE ETHIOPIAN : HIS SONG. 

ON BOARD THE SLAVER. 



The game was done, and quiet reigned, 
Those who had lost, those who had gained, 

Alike had disappeared ; 
Only three men remained behind — 
A white haired man, a man stone blind, 

A youth whose cheeks were seared. 

These had not used the dubious dice; 
They were not subject to the vice; 

They were but hangers-on. 
And now they sat, the three, and smoked; 
In livelier moods, perhaps, they joked, 
When all the rest had gone. 

"The times have changed," the old man said, 
And, palsied, shook his snow-white head. 

" 'T is not as years ago, 
When cruel, grasping white men bore 
Me, a poor youth, from Afric's shore, 

To this cursed land of woe." 

"Tell us the tale!" the others cried, 
"Tell us the tale." The old man sighed. 

"The times have changed," he said; 
"The war was fought and we were freed, 
Our young men doomed no more to bleed, 

For slavery is dead." 

THE OLD MAN'S TALE. 

My boyhood home was near the sea; 
My father was the chieftain. We 

Had enemies nearby — 
A rival chief, a warlike band, 
Whose long encroachments on our land 

Inflamed us constantly. 



21 



THE ETHIOPIAN : HIS SONG. 

Once they had met our men in fight, 

But we had matched them might with might 

And forced them to retire, 
And though our foe had not returned, 
Within his heart we knew there burned 

An unextinguished fire. 



Sometimes a hunter or a maid 

Who near the hostile borders strayed — 

Did these find sudden graves? 
For it was whispered — dreaded word 
Which all our souls with horror stirred- 

That they were sold as slaves. 



I roamed the jungles far and wide, 
A hunter in my youthful pride, 

And laughed at thought of fear. 
Keen was my eye and bold my blow — 
The game which fell before my bow 

I brought from far and near. 

One day, intent upon the chase, 
I wandered in an unknown place, 

Unheeding and alone. 
So on until some men I saw, 
Then stopped in terror and in awe — 

The men were not our own! 



Alas! too eager, I had passed 
The borders of our land, and cast 

Myself among my foes. 
I could not fly, it was too late, 
Flight could not save me from my fate — 

I must resort to blows. 



22 



THE ETHIOPIAN : HIS SONG. 

With threatening mien and angry shout, 
The enemy now swarm about. 

They were ten men to one; 
Ten men to one — but only five 
Of all their horde remained alive 

After the fight was done. 



For when I saw that I must fight. 

At once I drew my bowstring tight — 

The foremost foeman fell. 
The rest came on; another shot 
Sped swift and sure, my aim failed not; 

They charged with blow and yell. 

A warrior at me threw a spear, 
Which, passing, barely grazed my ear, 

And then I struck him dead. 
How long the fight I do not know; 
It ended when a dreadful blow 

Descended on my head. 

When I recovered I was bound 
And lying helpless on the ground; 

My head ached, and a pain 
In my right shoulder made me weak, 
And yet I did not groan nor speak, 

But closed my eyes again. 

I looked again and saw my foes 
In attitudes of grim repose — 

Sullen and silent they. 
And when they saw my opened eyes 
The leader gruffly bade me rise, 

But I could not obey. 



21 



THE ETHIOPIAN: HIS SONG. 

I tried, but groaned aloud in pain. 
"Get up!" the fellow cried again. 

"Your power I defy!" 
I said, and they glared fierce and wild. 
I saw their fury, and I smiled — 

I did not fear to die. 



They lifted me with threat and blow; 
My destiny I did not know. 

But I was soon to learn; 
Just two miles off, within the bay 
The slaver's ship at anchor lay— 

Her mast I could discern. 



The slave ship— ah! my spirits failed; 
My captors saw that I had quailed, 

And laughed aloud in glee; 
"It is oujt rival chieftain's son, 
I know him by his strength." said one; 

"You'll fight no more." said he. 

At length we reached the slaver's side. 
How grand she looked: while far and wide 

The ocean spread it waves. 
Some white men. fierce and stern of face, 
Had improvised a market place, 

And here they purr-based slaves. 

My captors offered me for sale, 

And when they saw my strength would fail, 

Tried to conceal my wound. 
But all in vain; I staggered back, 
The world grew cold, the world grew black, 

And sore with pain, I swooned. 



24 



THE ETHIOPIAN : HIS SONG. 

In inky darkness I awoke; 

I tried to rise, and feebly spoke. 

Then as my sense came back, 
I found my feet were tied; my hands 
Securely bound with iron bands — 

I lay upon my back. 

Strange murmurs, groans and anguished cries 
From all about me seemed to rise, 

But nothing could I see, 
Till, stirring. I touched something warm — 
On either side a human form 

Was lying close to me. 



A hole was opened, and the light 
Disclosed a sad and shocking sight. 

As far as I could see, 
Bound on their backs in fearsome way, 
In crowds the hapless victims lay, 

In direst misery. 



It was the slaver's deck, and we 
Were sailing swiftly o'er the sea, 

Borne to a land of slaves. 
But many, far more fortunate, 
Were saved from this unhappy fate- 

They sleep in watery graves. 



For in that hole the very air 

Was baneful to each person there; 

And grimly, day by day, 
Stern, white-faced men came silent in, 
And 'mid the wild, discordant din, 

They bore the dead away. 



25 



THE ETHIOPIAN: HIS SONG. 

Hour after hour, day after day, 
Upon my back in pain I lay, 

While curses, groans and shrieks, 
Harsh and unearthly, rent the air, 
With now and then, perhaps, a prayer, 

For many dreary weeks. 

Since then in dungeons I have lain, 
My clothing marked with crimson stain- 
Have felt the bloodhound's bite, 
But never have I known such pains 
As when aboard that ship in chains, 
Bound helpless day and night. 

And it shall ever be my prayer, 

I ne'er again may breathe such air — 

Such stench — nor eat such food; 
Lord, may I never more again 
See living men and dying men 

Lie thus together nude! 



Oh, may I never know such thirst 
As on that slaver's deck accursed! 

Or hear such anguished cries 
For water— cries of pain and fright- 
Wild, weird and piercing, day and night, 

Float upward to the skies! 



And I must say, strange to relate, 
The men who brought me to this fate 

With me had shared the chains. 
The slaver's crew seized every black 
Ere starting o'er the ocean's track, 

To swell their lawless gains. 



26 



THE ETHIOPIAN : HIS SONG. 

So there they lay on either side, 
Their ghastly eyes distended wide, 

Scarce more than skin and bones; 
And parched with fever and with thirst, 
From out their fevered lips there burst 

Their anguished cries and groans. 



And still as the sad days went by, 
With haughty mien and glassy eye, 

That filled our souls with dread, 
Amid the clamor and the din 
Some members of the crew came in 

And bore away the dead. 

And day by day the noise decreased, 
With death the captives' moaning ceased. 

And out of every five 
Thus snatched away from Afric's land, 
When we had reached Virginia's strand, 

But one remained alive. 



And though I hourly wished for death, 
Kind heaven spared my worthless breath, 

And brought me o'er the sea, 
And dropped me on Columbia's soil, 
To pass my life in dreary toil, 

In shame and slavery. 

But now my life is near its close, 
Soon, soon will end all earthly woes 

For this old, battered wreck; 
But old and worn, I tremble still, 
When I recall my fate so ill 

Upon the slaver's deck. 



27 



THE ETHIOPIAN: HIS SONG. 

BRAVERY, 



The soldier is brave as he goes into battle 

And fears not the shot or the thrust of the foe. 

He smiles 'mid the carnage, the din and the rattle, 
And strong is his arm for the death-dealing blow.' 

I read of Toussaint and my heart thrills with glory; 

I think of the heroes of San Juan's fight; 
Of the English whose blood made the green veldt shine 
gory 

When charging the Boer in an African night. 

But braver than soldier with pistol or saber 
Is he who must rise at the first morning light, 

And go to the field or the factory to labor, 
And ceases when conquered by darkness of night. 

Oh, stern is his fight and his foe unrelenting; 

The battle is lost if his spirit dares shirk; 
No time for regret, not a time for lamenting, 

No time for complaining— time only for work. 

Through heat 4ind through cold, through the blowing and 
raining 

He wars with discomfort, with hardship and toil- 
He wars without glory or great renown gaining; 

A jeer is his guerdon, a scoff is his spoil. 

The soldier braves death when his heart glows with anger 
He smfts the red field, and it fires up his breast, 

The danger is hid in the reckless, mad clangor- 
The fight is soon over, the soldier may rest. 

But not so the man in the dark earth descending 

To dig for the comfort of those who dig not- 
Cold-blooded his fight and its ardour unending 
His valor unpraised and his triumph forgot. 

28 



THE ETHIOPIAN : HIS SONG. 

The soldier is brave, but the workman is braver, 
Who daily unflinchingly goes to the fight— 

Who wars not for glory or man's fickle favor— 
Who labors for God, for the truth and the right. 




29 



THE ETHIOPIAN : HIS SONG. 



ORGANIZATION. 



Benjamin Tompkins, known as "Uncle Ben," 

Called a mass meeting of the colored men 

In Peter's Church, not many nights ago, 

The object of which meeting was to show 

What wealth within the negroes' power lies — 

What force for good, if they would organize. 

Plain was his speech, he did not bite his tongue, 

But spoke quite pointedly to old and young. 

He rose right up and bowed and scratched his head, 

And braced himself and cleared his throat, and said: 

"We talk of negroes' wrongs, of negroes' rights, 

We meet in secret and denounce the whites — 

But why not help ourselves? Friends, we are wrong! 

We have sat idle and complained too long. 

Now we must act, now we must organize, 

Bearing in mind that strength in union lies. 

We all wear clothing, we must all have food; 

We must have furniture and coal and wood; 

These we should buy of negroes! There should be 

A large, successful negroes' grocery, 

Or many such — and clothing stores, the best — 

Jewelry stores and pawnshops and the rest. 

If we resolve to have these things, we can! 

But we must organize; this is my plan. 

After this manner we must all agree: 

'I'll help you, brother, if you will help me.' 

And when one starts an enterprise, let all 

Support him bravely, that he cannot fall. 

Then to the battle! let my words have weight; 

Be fixed in purpose; never vacillate. 

'Tis better e'en to dare, to lose and die, 

Than fail like fools for want of nerve to try." 



31 



THE ETHIOPIAN: HIS SONG. 



VENTURING. 



"Nay, venture not thy feeble bark 
Upon the bay! 

The wind rides high, the clouds look dark- 
Go not to-day." 

The hardy fisher heard and laughed, 

Then sailed away; 
And of the fish a wondrous draught 

He took that day. 

"Oh. go not to the heathen land 

To preach and die! 
Thy bones unburied on the strand 

Bleaching shall lie." 

The missionary heard and smiled. 

His way he trod, 
And many souls untaught and wild 

Brought home to God. 



32 



THE ETHIOPIAN: HIS SONG. 

OBLIVION. 



(June, 1898.) 

Forget, alas! forget 

The words I said; 
Forget our love, and let 
The joy — and the regret — 

Be past and dead. 

Forget my heart that broke 

For your dear eyes; 
Forget the love I spoke — 

Forget my sighs. 

Ah, think no more of this, 

The happy past! 
Forget that tender kiss 

Which proved our last. 

Does recollection yet 

Oppress your heart — 
A faint yet keen regret 

That we must part? 

Ah! let the feeling die! 

And let no tear 
Shine in your lustrous eye; 
Repress the pensive sigh — 

You were so dear! 

But in the years to be 

Let not regret, 
Nor e'en one thought of me 

Your spirit fret. 
Souls parted mourn — shall we? 

Forget — forget ! 



33 



THE ETHIOPIAN: HIS SONG. 

LYNCH LAW. 



Just within a Southern village, as the summer day grew 

old, 
And the western sunlight, dying, tipped the trees with 

fickle gold, 
Came at once a great commotion — far and wide the news 

was spread: 
Thomas Ware, a well-known merchant, in his store lay 

murdered — dead ! 

There a little boy had found him — lying just within the 

door, 
Struck down by a base assassin, cold and lifeless on the 

floor! 
Goods were scattered, drawers rifled — robbery was the 

cause assigned; 
But the cool, bloodthirsty fiend had flown and left no clue 

behind. 

Who had done it? None could answer. But the boy who 
found him, said: 

"When I came to make a purchase, Mr. Ware was lying 
dead ; 

None was near him save a negro; it was that man stand- 
ing there — 

From the store I saw him running — he had murdered Mr. 
Ware!" 

He was pointing to a negro in the center of the crowd; 
All their eyes were turned upon him — he was frightened, 

he was cowed; 
Beads of sweat stood on his forehead and his trembling 

knees grew weak; 
Fear had paralyzed his muscles — he could neither move 

nor speak! 



34 



THE ETHIOPIAN: HIS SONG. 

Then they shouted, "Hang him!" "Kill him!" and they 

seized and bound him fast — 
By no court of earth or heaven was his dreadful sentence 

passed ; 
But a mob of angry farmers doomed him, doomed him in 

a breath! 
And they seized their helpless victim, bound and led him 

to his death. 

Straight out of the little village, followed by a frenzied 
throng 

Who were eager for his death, they dragged the pleading 
wretch along. 

At a large oak tree they threw the rope and bade the ne- 
gro pray, 

And another ghastly murder was committed on that day! 

As his body swung revolving, came a crack — a crash — a 

cry — 
Though they had destroyed their victim, not alone was he 

to die. 
For the branch whereon they hanged him broke when 

scarce his life was sped, 
And it fell among the lynchers, full upon their leader's 

head! 

This man was unknown — a stranger — for the first time now 

they see, 
Yet the first to cry for vengeance, first to draw the rope, 

was he. 
Quick a doctor stooped to aid him. but his face at once 

grew grave, 
And the friends that stood around him knew he had no 

power to save. 



35 



THE ETHIOPIAN: HIS SONG. 

When he knew that he was dying, with his failing breath 

he said: 
"This is but just relribution, sent by God upon my head; 
For you knew not when you hanged him — that poor negro 

lying there — 
You destroyed a harmless mortal— it was I that murdered 

Ware ! 

"Years ago, when we were partners, he deceived me, 

wrecked my life, 
And I vowed that 1 would ruin him, and to-day he felt my 

knife " 

Here he ceased, and from his nostrils oozed a tiny stream 

of red. 
A moan, a gasp, a sMght convulsion — and the murderer 

was dead. 

This occurred. O proud Columbians! in your own fair 

Southern land — 
In your "glorious laud ol freedom"— and shall justice stay 

her hand? 
Tremble! bow your heads in shame! For 'tis Democracy's 

disgrace 
That so many men thus suffer, all through hatred of a 

race! 




36 



THE ETHIOPIAN: HIS SONG. 

THE NEGRO'S PLACE. 



THE WHITE MAN'S VIEW. 

How long shall there a question be 

Of negro inequality? 

Well-meaning people — men of sense — 

With kindness and intelligence, 

Have used their power and their strength, 

Treating the problem at great length. 

But through their argument we trace 

Ignorance of the negro race; 

And in the zeal by them displayed 

Some very sad mistakes are made; 

Religion has their bosom fired, 

And sentiment their words inspired. 

The negro whom we now discuss — 
What was he when he came to us? 
The grossest of the race of man — 
A savage, a barbarian, 
Quite often rescued from the maw 
Of men with man^devouring jaw. 

While Europe long had known the light, 
The negro dwelt in darkest night; 
And still he shows himself the child 
Of the dark jungles, fierce and wild. 
And when these people had become 
The servants of the Southern home, 
And lusty tillers of the lands, 
As farming slaves, plantation hands — 
Out of this mass, by heaven's grace, 
We made the present negro race. 
The rural life, the country air, 
Under the white man's thoughtful care, 
His better nature flourished most, 
And much of grossness he has lost. 
Thus have we shown to all the earth 
The limit of the negro's worth. 

37 



THE ETHIOPIAN : HIS SONG. 

A member of our home was he — 
Unquestioned his humanity; 
Treated with kindness and respect, 
Secure from hunger and neglect; 
Our friend but not our equal; no! 
Our palace was high, his place was low. 
And simple was the way in which 
Each fitted his peculiar niche. 
In the best homes the babies there 
Were in the old black mammy's care. 
The older folk in humble haunts 
Were all our "uncles" or our "aunts." 
And thus did usage form a place 
For the old-fashioned negro race. 
His soul was of the gentler kind — 
A pious, patient, humble mind. 
Then the two races lived in love, 
And for each other's welfare strove. 
The master and the humble slave 
Would die each other's life to save. 

Kind-hearted people of the North 
Knew not the negro's place and worth, 
Nor knew that this was nature's plan; 
They only saw in him a man, 
Entitled to the power and rights 
So long held sacred by the whites. 
The negro's head has now been turned 
By new, false notions; he has spurned 
His natural and lowly place; 
And 'tis a sad thing for the race, 
For at this time a trouble grave 
Hangs over our liberated slave: 
Should he antagonize the whites, 
Or seek to wrest from them his rights, 
They may pursue a dreadful course, 
And rise against the black in force, 



39 



THE ETHIOPIAN : HIS SONG. 

Enrich our soil with negro gore, 

And blot him out for evermore. 
The negro was by heaven made 

A servant, and on him was laid 

The mark, so plain that all may see, 

Of his inferiority. 

And he can no more be made white 

Than daylight can be turned to night. 

Since this is nature's stern decree, 

Why talk of race equality? 

Out of its level and its place 

We will not have the negro race. 

Our Southern land would know no peace; 

Lynchings and riots would not cease. 

Instruction of the negro's mind 
Should all be of a fitting kind. 
Not as our sons should he be taught— 
This course is with grave danger fraught. 
To place him by the white man's side, 
Filled with false notions, puffed with pride, 
His bosom filled with discontent— 
His fate is death or banishment; 
And those who raise him from his state 
But press him onward to his fate. 
Let them now seek to right these wrongs- 
Teach the negro where he belongs; 
To honor this, his rigntful place- 
And they will greatly bless the race. 

THE NEGKO'S ARGUMENT. 

'Twill ever be the white man's song 
That, having lived with us so long, 
They of the South our worth can test, 
And that they understand us best. 
So they assign unto our race 
What they esteem its rightful place; 



41 





NATIVE AFRICAN BOY. 



THE ETHIOPIAN : HIS SONG. 

And to all other men they say, 

"You do not know the negro's way; 

His faults you cannot understand 

Like those who meet him hand to hand." 

When to this land the negro came, 
In degradation and in shame, 
Wild, naked and in savage state, 
The whites beheld him desolate, 
Crushed down and humbled in the dust— 
The blacks inspired them with disgust. 
This feeling has not passed away, 
But dwells within their breasts to-day. 
The white man likes to think that he 
Transcends the black in great degree; 
\nd prejudice has made him blind 
To the black man of cultured mind, 
Who proves that races differ most 
In mere appearance. 'T is no boast 
To say that in the negro's mind 
Dwell all the thoughts of humankind. 

'T is true, when brought across the seas, 
Our ancestors were savages; 
Some few were cannibals, perchance— 
Man-eaters in their ignorance; 
But did not Europe's nations white 
Through ages dwell, in darkest night, 
Savage, degraded and despised, 
While other men were civilized? 
And these same Southerners who boast 
So loudly, were a savage host 
Through centuries, while Rome and Greece 
Beheld enlightenment's increase. 

The negro in the Southern bounds 
Was forced to till the white man's grounds 
With his own sweat his face was washed, 
And at day's end his back was lashed 



43 



THE ETHIOPIAN : HIS SONG. 

By gentle Christian men, and kind, 

Whose thoughts were unto gold confined. 

And 'twas to them the negro owed 

The humble spirit which he showed. 

And since this better served the ends 

Of those who called themselves his friends, 

What wonder that to them it seemed 

The negro's heart with gladness beamed, 

And that by dire affliction bent, 

He showed his best development? 

They cared not that he was a man, 

The poor, long-suffering African; 

They only cared, they only knew 

What he was worth, what he could do. 

They cared not that he had a soul, 

So that he bowed to their control. 

A man he was who had no choice; 

He yielded, raising not his voice 

In protest 'gainst his hard estate, 

Humbly submitting to his fate. 

There were some whites who, more humane, 
Scorning to sell their souls for gain, 
Treated their servants with more care, 
And made their lot less hard to bear. 
And these, who all the while could view 
Their brethren's harder state, and knew 
Their own might be such galling woe, 
Some gratitude, perchance, might show. 
So that their masters, seeing this. 
Cried, "Sure we treat them not amiss! 
Most happy is our servants' fate; 
This is their right and fitting state. 
The black was born to be a slave, 
To serve the white man proud and brave." 
But naught could quench the hidden fire 
Within the soul — the great desire 
To be unbound, to be unchained, 

44 



THE ETHIOPIAN : HIS SONG. 

To live the life that God ordained. 
But knowing they could not be free, 
With great adaptability 
They made the best of their sad lot, 
To some extent their ills forgot. 
Their cares were few, their lives seemed gay 
Their only thought was to obey. 
The negro was not made to fill 
This place so lowly and so ill. 
It came to him by chance; not he 
Was made for it especially; 
Nor did the way he bore his lot 
Prove that his shame oppressed him not. 
People of any other race 
Had done as he did in his place. 

But having passed this dreadful stage. 
His bosom glows with honest rage 
At thought of what so long he bore, 
And how the chains so long he wore. 
He cannot indolently rest; 
He feels within his dusky breast 
The manhood which lay hidden there 
Ere he could breath a freedman's air. 

The free Caucasian, strong and proud. 
His haughty spirit still unbowed, 
Will not employ his strength and might 
To rob his brother of the right 
To say he is a man, nor seek 
To keep him down, oppressed and weak. 

Who sees the negro from afar 
Best knows him— what his passions are. 
No prejudice has made him blind 
That he is like all humankind, 
With normal human thought endued— 
A member of the brotherhood. 
The Southern white man cannot see 



45 



THE ETHIOPIAN: HIS SONG. 

Beneath the black's tranquility; 

Nor does he know the dusky skin 

Conceals a noble heart within. 

He tries to show the negro race 

Adapted to a lowly place; 

Yet more, a few — thank heaven, a few, 

And passing — hold the foolish view 

That negroes' heads must always bow 

As low, or lower still, than now. 

Or see the white man, long his friend, 

Rise up and make a dreadful end. 

Vain, childish thought! the sun shall fade 

Ere such a direful game be played, 

Or ere the white man raise his hand 

To drive the negro from this land. 

Not lightly do men yield to rage 

And in such dastard work engage. 

No! on the land where he has toiled 

We shall not see the negro spoiled, 

But rather as his strength shall grow, 

As his intelligence shall show, 

So the two races shall increase 

In love, in harmony and peace. 

He cannot go upon his knees 

And say, 'Respect me, if you please." 

Such a request were made in vain, 

And would but fill men with disdain. 

But when he proves himself a man 

No men despise the black; none can. 

So he must show that to his race 

Is not denied kind heaven's grace. 

The training for the negro's mind 

Must be of no peculiar kind; 

For what has made the white man great 

Likewise improves the negro's state. 

Who hardest labors to this end 

Most proves himself the negro's friend. 



46 



THE ETHIOPIAN : HIS SONG. 



OUTDOING COLUMBUS, 



I made an egg stand up one day — 
"Oh, I know how 'twas done: 

You smashed one end," I hear you say; 
But there you're wrong, my son. 

I broke the shell, I must confess; 

I took it off complete; 
The egg walked forth in downy dress, 
And stood upon its feet. 



47 



THE ETHIOPIAN: HIS SONG. 



ABANDON 



The daylight has faded, not e'en twilight lingers; 

Without all is moonlit, and soft is the breeze; 
Within, lady, play! let your soft, gentle fingers 

Move softly, move lightly, move over the keys. 

Oh, play! while the moon, in her shimmering splendor, 
Sends in through the window a rich flood of light; 

Though mystic her beam, though her kiss may be tender, 
Your kiss is far sweeter, your eyes are more bright. 

Play on to my heart, lonely, silently aching! 

You know not its secret, you know not its woe! 
Oh, play while 't is sad, while 't is throbbing and breaking; 

It beats with the music, now high and now low. 

Oh, play a wild rapture that scoffs at my dreaming! 

My heart would be sad, let the music be gay. 
My sadness of spirit it mocks in its scheming, 

So madly, so gladly, play on, lady — play! 



48 



THE ETHIOPIAN: HIS SONG. 



TO A FADED FLOWER. 



Angelic creature, thou hast flown, and gloom 

Doth dwell with those to whom thou wert most dear 

While thou wert here. 
Thy life is done: the cold, unpitying tomb 
Doth claim thee now; nor beauty, youth nor bloom, 
Nor all the tears of those who loved, could save 

From lonely grave. 

And wert thou lonely, wandering silent o'er 

Unto the shore 
Of that strange, misty, wondrous, unknown land? 
Or did bright seraphs hold thy trembling hand? 
False, gloating grave! thou art deceived: thy prize 
Is but her clay — more thou canst not demand, 

Nor that despise. 

Farewell, departed one, flower of a day! 
Though thou hast passed so fleetingly away, 

Thou art not dead ; 
Thou hast but read a book by us unread. 
The glorious land to which thy soul hath flown 
Is but a change, and no unwelcome one — 

Dear one, rest on. 



Oct 23, 1898. 



49 



THE ETHIOPIAN : HIS SONG. 



THE COMPENSATION. 



When the spring days of life have passed away, 
And all the world seems cheerless, dull and gray, 
*T is vain to sigh when the great gulf we see 
'Twixt what we are and what we hoped to be! 
We can but feel our years are vainly spent, 
And all for naught the life by heaven lent. 

And yet we know, though vainly we have toiled 
Full many a day and seen our efforts foiled, 
Not always wise the end for which we wrought, 
And oft a blessing that it came to naught. 
This is not failure! life were sadder still 
Did we succeed and work our fellows ill: 
Not vainly spent that mortal's fleeting years, 
Who wins no throne and fills no eyes with tears. 



50 



THE ETHIOPIAN: HIS SONG. 

CHARLEY'S LOVE LETTER. 



My dear, sweet Susie: 

As to you I write — 
(Now what's the matter 

With that beastly light?) 

I love you only, 

My darling miss — 
(My! here comes Katie; 

She mustn't see this!) 

My heart is happy, 

I fear no ill — 
(Here comes the landlord 

With last month's bill!) 

Your grace and your beauty- 

(How that fits in! 
The truth is, Susie 's 

As ugly as sin!) 

Have made me pious, 
From all sin I shrink — 

(Now where 's my bottle? 
I'll take a drink.) 

Your sweet disposition 
(She's a regular cat) 

Leads me to adore — 

(And a side door at that!) 

Sweet, will you answer? 

Shall I be forgot? 
(Pshaw! I don't care 

If she answers or not.) 



51 



THE ETHIOPIAN: HIS SONG. 



THE CHRYSANTHEMUM. 



Flower of a day when other flowers have passed! 

Thy scentless beauty wooes me more than those — 

More than the violet and fickle rose, 
Which to the earth their luckless petals cast, 
And leave thee, last to blow, and fading last. 

They smile when earth with other joys o'erflows, 

And slight their charm; but when return the snows, 

Thou cheerest then, unchilled by winter's blast. 
Even so the pleasures of our happier hour 

Pass half unnoticed if the world is gay; 
Hearts filled with pleasure feel not pleasure's power- 

We prize not smiles in fortune, flowers in May, 
But shivering turn to thee, O queenly flower! 

That lingerest when the rest have passed away. 



52 



THE ETHIOPIAN : HIS SONG. 

THE CAUCASIAN. 



Cursed was the hour when the Caucasian's greed 
Caused him in chains the captive black to lead, [ 

And to transport him to a foreign shore! 
'Tis cursed for both of them for evermore. 
The white man gained — a war: this for his spoil; 
The negro's gain was misery and toil. 
And after slavery and war's wild rage 
Both have misfortune for a heritage. 
Away with the white man's enlightenment! 
'T is a thin covering — t is discontent. 
Its great brick walls, its brass and polished steel, 
A world of woe and wretchedness conceal. 
It has its alleys with their filth and grime, 
Lewdness and outrage and unpunished crime. 
When shame and vice in human form we meet, 
In public places, on the crowded street; 
When we see murderers, red with victims' gore, 
Turned loose that they may dye their hands once more- 
Does civilization then appear so grand 
That we despise that other wilder land, 
Whence dragged by treachery or chance of war, 
We have become the creatures that we are? 
What has the white man, that his former slave 
A life of toil and care like his should crave? 
He has the glamour and the flimsy sham 

His art designed the human race to damn; ^ - 

He has stuffed ballot-box, election fraud, 
Wealth reigning despot, Justice overawed. 
He has his mines, where shut from light of day, 
Year after year men grind their lives away; 
The factory, the hard and sterile soil — 
Here his life passes in unpleasant toil. 
O false Enlightenment! I stand amazed 
That men see not the, evil which, upraised, 



53 



THE ETHIOPIAN: HIS SONG. 

Gravely she threatens with her gilded arm. 

And wherein lies her beauty and her charm? 

Are not concubinage, adultery rife 

In civilized as in the savage life? 

Is human life more sacred? Can we bless 

Its laws and say they yield us happiness? 

Man's bounds are set, beyond he cannot pass; 

He is of earth, whate'er his race or class. 

Strip off the covering, the man remains, 

Though in a dungeon thrown, or bound in chains. 

Civilization, in its showy dress. 

But seems to carry with it happiness, 

But seen more close, how false its grace appearsj 

It stands for murder and for groans and tears. 

Vice comes in rags — we turn away distressed; 

Vice comes in silks, is coddled and caressed. 

Civilized nations in smooth garments clad, 

But mean to hide, not to destroy their bad. 

And wretchedness and misery and crime 

Reign here as in the unenlightened clime. 

To say that civilization makes men blest, 

Is to say that the man in broadcloth dressed, 

And who is sore beset with tailors' bills, 

Irate small grocers and like simple ills, 

Is happier than the man of humble means, 

With a full stomach and a suit of jeans. 

The antics of this "foremost race of men" 
Become almost amusing now and then, 
^im^when we see their "noblemen" and peers, 
Who trace their families from ancient years, 
Behave like the most humble sons of earth, 
Though gilded still — we men of humbler birth 
Are prone to curse their vain and empty show, 
And look more kindly on the ranks below. 
Yes, when these polished savages I see, 
Whose fight for wisdom brings stupidity, 



54 



THE ETHIOPIAN: HIS SONG. 

I think on what they have and what they lack, 

And humbly bless the fate that made me black. 

Proud the Caucasian! bold his flaming eye! 

Behold him, darker races! kneel or die! 

War is his glory — with uplifted hand 

He claims dominion over sea and land. 

"It is the white man's burden"— thus they say— 

"To give to other men the light of day." 

To carry out this kind, fraternal task, 

Only good guns and battleships they ask; 

Then landing darkly on some foreign shore, 

They "uplift" men with blood and cannon's roar. 

The gospel of the lowly Nazarene, 

This, too, with soldiers for a guard is seen. 

Himself he always showed in garbs of peace — 

A living sign that war and strife should cease: 

The white man, with his bared and glittering sword, 

Compels the nations to accept the Word, 

For to himself he arrogates the right 

To rule the world because his face is white. 

Still I should feel my effort spent in vain, 

If but our brother's weakness I made plain, 

And said no word about his nobler side, 

Which shows his nature close to God allied. 

The rosebush has malignant, stinging thorns— 

The queen of flowers its foliage adorns. 

Think not of good the ruling race has naught, 

Because to show its evil I have wrought. 

With his mistakes and self-conceit apart, 

Within the white man has a noble heart; 

And so as through the dark and doubt we grope, 

We bear within our breasts a living hope 

That right shall reign, and at no distant clay 

Turmoil and strife forever pass away. 



55 



THE ETHIOPIAN: HIS SONG. 

TOMMIES CONFIDENCE. 



We tucked our Tommie 

In his little bed; 
He began to whimper, 

And his sister said: 

"Out in the darkness 
Is a cold, dark lake, 

And just beside it 

Lives a great, big snake. 

"And he has a mouth 

Of an awful size; 
He has long, white teeth, 

And big, green eyes. 

"And he'll come and take you 
Through the kitchen floor; 

Then my little brother 
Will come back no more. 

"Oh, he runs so swiftly, 

With a lot of noise, 
And he don't eat nothin' 

But colored boys, 

" 'Cause the white boys' papas 
Are so great, you know, 

They would chop his head off 
With a garden hoe." 

Then loud laughed Tommie, 
And we heard him say: 

"My big, black papa 
Is as great as they." 



56 



THE ETHIOPIAN : HIS SONG. 



A TOAST TO THE DEVIL. 



"Say, boys, while we're drinking- 
My head is level! 

Let the glasses be clinking- 
Here's a toast to the devil!" 

Then he poured out the liquor 
And turned around laughing; 

The lights seemed to nicker 
The while he was quaffing. 

The fellows who heard him 

Looked on in dismay; 
But no one deterred him — 

They all shrank away. 

"To the devil!" he swaggered, 
Then his eyes opened wide; 

He gasped and staggered, 
Fell, shuddered and died. 



57 



THE ETHIOPIAN: HIS SONG. 



LAURELLE. 

Standing lonely in the night, 

Gazing through the mists, 
To a wild, soft note, and slight 

My sad spirit lists. 
'Tis the wind, whose mystic swell 
Does to me sweet secrets tell 
Of a beauteous, queenly sprite — 
Of a maiden wreathed in white — 
My Laurelle! 

And these tuneful breezes tell 

How, long, long ago, 
I loved her, my sweet Laurelle, 

Once long, long ago; — 
How her beauty did ensnare- 
How I loved, but did not dare- 
How I wandered— left her there, 
Loved Laurelle! 



58 



THE ETHIOPIAN : HIS SONG. 

THE FIRST BATTLK 



In the old days when with an iron hand 
The English sovereign ruled this Western land, 
The embryo nation, struggling to be free, 
Sent up the cry of "Death or liberty!" 
And in the war they waged this end to gain 
Were whites alone in bloody battle slain? 
No! where the shot of England thickest fell- 
Loudest the blow, wildest the battle yell- 
Where heroes' blood the trampled grasses dyed 
And swelled the brooklet with its gory tide- 
There was the negro. Born an humble slave. 
Doomed only to find freedom in the grave, 
He fought for others' freedom, took up arms 
And marched forth boldly unto war's alarms. 
He helped to gain the cherished liberty. 
And send the humbled foe across the sea. 
Freedom was won! Yes, freedom— of a kind; 
For flushed with pride, by prejudice made blind, 
To this one fact, that freedom is the right 
Of every race and nation, black or white, 
These erstwhile bondsmen, newly clothed with power, 
To these their freedom gave in that bright hour, 
But failed their brethren in the South to bless. 
O sad reward for all their faithfulness! 
"Land of the free, home of the proud and brave"— 
Within thy bounds the negro groaned— a slave! 
His hapless lot moved noble men to tears, 
To prayers and protests, on through many years. 
The Anglo-Saxon conscience could not sleep 
A Phillips wept and others bade to weep; 
And press and pulpit damned the licensed crime 
In language heard in every Christian clime. 
And when the country shook beneath the jar 
Of a great fratricidal civil war, 



THE ETHIOPIAN : HIS SONG. 

Black men again upbore the Northern arms, 

Firm, brave and awful in their sable swarms. 

Undaunted when denied a soldier's right, 

"Fight on!" they cried, "fight on for freedom— fight!" 

And when they ceased, when war and strife were done, 

The negro stood a man. and right had won. 

A citizen behold him proudly stand, 

Lord of himself, with ballot in his hand. 

Unused to liberty, he views it dazed, 

In hesitation— timid, stunned, amazed; 

Thrown on the world to struggle for his life 

All unequipped, untutored for the strife. 

Like a wild beast long bound within a cage, 

In fettered fury and in helpless rage. 

Seeing the door to freedom left ajar, 

Walks forth— and stops; he fears to fly afar; 

He halts till, growing used to air and light, 

He treads the earth in all his former might. 

So the freed negro. Not the years of woe 

And toil he had been forced to undergo 

Had crushed the love of freedom in his soul; 

He thanked his God; his- joy knew no control. 

Bravely he took up life to prove his worth 

Unto the utmost ends of all the earth. 

And though abused, discouraged and opposed, 

Onward he went, his wondrous power disclosed; 

His work discredited, his rights denied 

By those who ruled in prejudice and pride, 

Whose motto, odious to the negro's ear, 

Was, "Let them hate, provided that they fear." 

He struggled on untiring, undismayed, 

Patient in pain and grateful for the aid 

Which noble white men deigned at times to give, 

And only asking for a chance to live. 

And he has proved for all time that his race 

Among all races holds an honored place. 

Child of a darker landj_a. freak of fate 



60 



THE ETHIOPIAN : HIS SONG. 

Had brought thee hapless to thy strange estate. 
Deem it a blessing sent unasked to thee 
By the Great Power which shapes our destiny, 
And which in long forgotten ages planned 
That Ethiopia should "stretch forth her hand." 




61 



THE ETHIOPIAN: HIS SONG. 
IF I COULD WRITE. 



If I could write, 
I'd sit to-night 
And tell how long 
'Twixt right and wrong 
My soul has striven, 
And how uneven 
The contest seems. 
How idle dreams. 
Abortive schemes, 
Have filled my mind- 
How, weak and blind, 
Long I have strove 
Great weights to move. 
Defeated, crushed, 
My cheering hushed, 
Back from the fray 
At this late day, 
I have been sent, 
Humbled and bent. 
I'd tell how hearts, 
When hope departs, 
Droop and despair; 
And say, "Beware, 
Lest ye should make 
Some heart to ache!" 
Sorrows that come 
To every home — 
Of these I'd write, 
And tell how bright 
Each joy appears 
After our tears. 
This I would tell, 
Much more as well, 
And 'twould be true 
Of me — and you. 

62 



THE ETHIOPIAN: HIS SONG. 



TO B. L. R. 



In vain they tell me all the world is sad, 
For you have taught me that it is not so. 

My heart was weary and the world was mad; 

But you, sweet one, such gloomy thoughts forbade, 
And turned my sighs to smiling long ago. 

And though long years have passed since your dear eyes, 

So full of sweetness, looked into my own — 
Though often storms of woe and grief arise, 
And clouds of trouble oft obscure the skies, 
In all distress one comfort I have known. 

There have been other joys, but all have passed; 

And other friendships, but all drift apart; 
And you have loved me— this alone could last; 
And like a cheering light your love has cast 

Ever a holy radiance on my heart. 



63 



THE ETHIOPIAN: HIS SONG. 



A PREFERENCE. 



Through fear an opportunity I lost; 
My comrade dared— and failed, with fearful cost. 
He failed a man, and smiled though wounded. I 
Retired abashed — I had not nerve to try. 

Improve each opportunity, my son! 

Let no chance pass, then say, "I might have done." 

Be not too cautious ; 't is the man who fears, 

Not he who dares, that sheds the bitterest tears. 



64 



THE ETHIOPIAN : HIS SONG. 



THE PESSIMIST'S ODE TO SATAN, 



Misguided Satan! filled with envious ire, 
Thou to be king of heaven didst aspire. 
Then Jesus Christ the avenging form assumed, 
And thou and thy rebellious hosts were doomed. 
So I rebelled against an adverse fate; 
Like thee, I lost, forlorn and desolate! 
To misery I am doomed, as thou to hell- 
Alike we strove to our own ill. Farewell! 



65 



THE ETHIOPIAN : HIS SONG. 



DISASTER. 



Disaster is thy mate, he lives with thee. 
When thou dost go about thy daily tasks 
He lingers at thy side; and in thy travels 
Doth tread close on thy heels and menace thee. 
And when, forgetting all earth's miseries, 
Thy lips are framed to smiles, thy Nemesis 
Tugs at thine elbow, and thy countenance 
Grows grave. Thy life is not thine own — 't is his 
With him thou liest on thy virtuous ^couch — 
He tends thee in thy sleep, and when thou wak'st 
Foreboding, grim, he waits upon thine hours. 



66 



THE ETHIOPIAN : HIS SONG. 



TWO HEARTS. 



Two hearts— one sang with joy and mirth- 
Care had not made it mourn; 

Upon the other all the earth 
Seemed ever to have borne. 

Two hearts! an angel came one night, 
And with his wondrous breath, 

Gave to the sad heart life and light, 
But to the gay one, death. 



67 



THE ETHIOPIAN: HIS SONG. 



SATIETY. 



I wish my soul were burned with a desire — 
A fierce, impassioned, fancy-nourished fire — 

To soar to heights that it could scarce attain; 
Or that I had a longing in my breast 

For something sought and until now in vain— 
A soul disturbed— a wild and vague unrest— 

A wish unbounded— that I might complain. 

And call my flown ambition back again. 



68 



THE ETHIOPIAN: HIS SONG. 



THE FATHER'S WELCOME, 



A little brown face in the door I see, 
My sweet little Mabel who waits for me; 
Two little black eyes 'neath their lashes shine, 
As a little brown hand is laid in mine. 
And I think as her smiling face I kiss, 
That even the angels might envy this! 



69 



THE ETHIOPIAN: HIS SONG. 



REJECTION. 



In list of woes that wring the human soul, 

To know one's kindness slighted leads the whole; 

To offer aid to fools, or to advise, 

Is bitterness indeed if they despise. 



70 






i 



